The rain slicked streets are oily under the fluorescent illumination of the street lights. And I am sat in this cafe’, my coffee turning cold as I smoke cigarette after cigarette, waiting for you.

I left my bed unsatisfied, the smell of my sex permeating the air for no amount of gymnastic contortions on my part left me sated. But knowing you, with your late hours and your permanent distraction, I called, and you answered. Were you in the mood for a cup of coffee, I wondered. You said you were, that you had been writing for hours. “With nothing to eat, I suppose”, I said. You do this. You’ll argue politics with your friends into the night with a bottle of whatever is handy and then stay up later still writing. I tell you that it will be the death of you.

The coffee here is terrible, but it’s too late to order bourban. I stab out my cigarette, and take another, ready to light it. You walk in.

I know how I must look. Hair electric and wild, eyes darkened by circles (but so are yours), mouth wet, bruised, but you’re almost always happy to see me. I can’t help it, beneath the table, my knees part, and the space between us is filled with my scent.

This, of course, makes you smile.

You take a flask from your pocket, pour a little of it in my coffee. “It’s Czech. Tastes like something they’d use to degrease cold-war era tank engines, but it will put hair on your chest.” I sip my coffee now, cold and polluted with your awful liquor, and it does burn, but only for a moment and then I am filled with a great lassitude.

I dip my fingers down, drawing the hem of my slip up, and the coat I threw over it, along with it, dipping my fingers into my sex. I bring my hand up, offer it to you and you take my fingers in your mouth, closing your eyes as I draw them out.

Now it’s your turn to scowl.

You grab my wrist with your hand, “that’s enough. I’m not in the mood for coffee anymore.” You are holding me too tightly and I try to pull away but you won’t release me, throwing a ball of crumpled bills on the table you pull me out of the booth and make your way to the door. I made the mistake of wearing heels and I’m teetering crazily to keep up with your strides.

On the street you hail a taxi, and once we’re in, you’re between my legs moving those detestable stained pants out of the way, your mouth on mine, fingers in my hair and at my throat, bruising me. And this is what I’ve wanted, all day, to be annihilated, if only for a moment, to become, for only a moment, pure sensation.